


One Last Chain

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Chains, Conditioning, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Multi, Recovery, Sacrifice, Supersoldier Serum, Time Travel, Winterhawk Reverse Bang, clint barton's love for coffee, mentions of torture, vormir fix-it (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-08-19 03:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: Inspiration art byThe Problem with Stardust!After jumping off a cliff, Clint is offered a second chance. His first thought: kidnap the Winter Soldier.Rated M for violence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, please be mindful of themes regarding conditioning, torture, captivity. Methods of recovery applied here should not be used in the real life (please visit a professional if needed). 
> 
> Beta'd by Tanouska. Thank you for yelling at me! :)
> 
> Rating is subject to change.

When he wrenches himself out of Nat's grasp, when he finally manages to push himself free— _ caught  _ by gravity—he doesn't expect to land painlessly. The ground beneath his back is solid and unyielding, and he's lying in a thin layer of liquid, maybe water. It feels like it, at least, and Clint shouldn't feel anything. Isn't  _ that _ the point of death?

He looks around. Perhaps this is what afterlife looks like, an unending span of a reflecting surface, an infinite shallow pool drenched in a red shade from a red sky and no visible light source.

"It's not afterlife," a voice says and Clint flinches so hard, he's halfway up already as he twists. 

A little girl is staring up at him. Green skin, chubby cheeks and hair pulled up in cute little buns. Clint's hand finds the hilt of his knife anyway. Before he can do or say anything, he hears a muffled swoosh and then sees a body falling flat behind the girl. 

Nat.

He can recognize her anywhere. It's… it's Nat. Clint's breath is stuck in his throat. She shouldn't be here. 

Nat—or maybe it's something that only  _ looks _ like Nat—blinks, getting her bearings. She sees them and is on her feet instantly, baton raised.

"You weren't supposed to jump, too!" They both say it at the same time, startling in the process. 

The little girl moves, then, and they both take a step sideways, assessing potential threats. 

"You're from different worlds," she says. "You both sacrificed yourselves for the soul stone." She shakes her head a little. "Unnecessarily. You weren't supposed to, I had already paid for it, but you know. Time makes mistakes sometimes, too."

It doesn't really make sense. Nat looks as confused as he is. 

"Long story short," the girl continues, "you're both trying to undo what Thanos did, in your worlds. You fought over the edge of the cliff—" she gestures at them "—with wildly different results. But that wasn't supposed to happen, you shouldn't have paid this price."

"Who are you?" Nat asks.

The little girls blinks, looking at the sky, before she turns her gaze back on them. "For the lack of a better explanation, I could say I'm the soul stone. Or an interface. That sounds better."

Clint swallows. His throat is so dry. "What happened back—"

"Your friend received the soul stone and she's on her way to your team." She looks at Nat. "Same for yours."

Nat nods, considering. Clint knows what she's going to ask before she does. "Why are we here, then?"

"In your worlds a soul had already been exchanged for the stone when you arrived on Vormir. It doesn't matter that you traveled back in time, the payment had happened  _ before _ , from your point of view. So you shouldn't have been able to exchange yourselves for something that wasn't free for taking anymore."

"You were that payment," Clint repeats her previous words. 

She nods. "It's an anomaly that needs to be corrected, but unfortunately cannot. The entanglements of the timelines produced by this event cannot be undone. I'm sorry." She says that last part quietly, as if it were her fault. 

"So what do we do now?" Nat asks. 

"You can't stay here, it would get overcrowded fast." She rolls her eyes a little, as if endeared. "You're not the first two to have jumped. There are millions and millions of worlds where Thanos succeeded in ripping away half of the universe and millions upon millions of you jumping for the stone. Well, not you two specifically, but you understand the general idea."

"Okay," Clint says carefully. "Where do we go, then."

"You go back," she says, like it's easy, like the idea is not tearing itself through his chest. Is this a test? Has he already failed it by wanting to return? Is this the soul stone's way of telling him he's not worthy?

He meets Nat's eyes and they're reflecting the same questions. 

"No," the girl breathes, thin and whispery on a wind does not exist, "you're not unworthy. Your part is over, your soul was received. Now you're entitled to one soul back. Didn't you pay attention? A soul for a soul, and the stone's is not itself to give anymore."

She claps her hands together. "So. I can put you back in your bodies, anywhere along your lives you choose to be. At birth, after the universe is righted, in your youth. Whenever, as long as it's in your own timeline."

Nat asks the question burning on his lips before he can. "Wouldn't that create alternate timelines? What happens to our team, our friends, our families?"

"The place you jumped from won't be erased, true. They'll continue with the knowledge of your loss. This isn't for  _ them _ . It's a gift to  _ you _ ."

The edge of the knife's hilt bites into his palm and Clint forces himself to let go before he draws blood. 

Another swoosh fills the air and, in the distance, another body drops. It looks like Quill, according to the photo Nebula's shown them. The little girl sighs, deeply, painfully, and says, "I have to take care of this. Think about it."

She's gone from their sides in a blink, and kneeling next to Quill, an adult now. 

"Gamora," Nat whispers. 

Huh. That makes sense. 

They spend exactly eight seconds assessing each other, before Clint turns his attention inward. If all this is not an elaborate ruse, or test, or whatever-the-hell, then he has to choose carefully. When did this all start? What are the key elements? What is needed to defeat Thanos before he even  _ begins _ his cursed odyssey? 

Tony is definitely a key factor, and so is the mind stone. 

A shudder passes through Clint when he remembers being under its influence. Loki could be an asset, if Clint were to capture him before he unleashes the Chitauri on New York. He's powerful, but not an emotionless stick, so Clint could play on that. The only problem there, however, is that Clint can only get to him right before that dreaded scepter touched his chest, and the margin of error is too small. The risk is too high. 

He rolls back to his previous thought. Tony is a man driven by his failures. When he gets beat down, he stands up and tries again. Ultron happened from a desire to protect and he backed the accords because that's what he felt offered the innocents the most protection at the time. Clint gets it. 

But they ended up divided, torn apart. Maybe if they hadn't been scattered, Thanos wouldn't have taken them by surprise, and the reason for that is glaringly, starkly— _ heh _ —the Winter Soldier. 

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. If Clint removes Barnes from the equation before he can get to Tony's parents, there's no way for Zemo to use him as a weapon. No reason for Steve to fight Tony. Sure, sure, they'll argue about the accords, but it won't be bloody and violent. Steve wouldn't have to choose between two friends. Tony wouldn't have to tear his own heart out in the process.

Assuring Tony becomes Iron Man might pose a challenge, but it shouldn't be impossible. If need be, he can take the Starks out himself—and that thought  _ hurts, _ it  _ hurts so much _ . But if it keeps the team together, if it keeps his  _ family _ together… Clint is ready to do anything. The other turning points of Tony's life would be easy to replicate. He's aware he can't change much, not if he wants his loved ones back, but suddenly his mind is reeling with possibilities. 

_ And _ if he extracts Barnes from HYDRA before time, then he and Nat can control when or if SHIELD falls. They can find the bastards and take them from the board, can make sure Wanda and Pietro don't fall into Strucker's hands, can keep the scepter out of that deranged creep's reach. But the scepter was brought to Earth by Loki, and who had it before that? Thanos, of course. Clearly, Nebula or Gamora would be an in. Vulnerabilities. Clint doesn't know much about Gamora, but he knows Nebula. 

He has no idea how he might get to Nebula without a spaceship, but then he remembers. Carol Danvers was on Earth sometime in the 90s. 

He sees it, a path. Stop Barnes in December 1991, enlist Captain Marvel's help later, get to Nebula. Play on the similarities between Barnes and Nebula to turn Nebula. Get to Thanos. Retrieve the mind stone, use it on him. Then return to Earth, and start taking SHIELD apart from the inside. Make sure Tony becomes Iron Man—his gut clenches—and spare them all the pain of losing half their lives. 

The only snag in that logic is, of course, that if Tony doesn't—

Clint shakes his head. It would be worth it.  _ He _ doesn't matter, whatever Gamora says. He's decided, he's going to do this for  _ them _ , not for himself. 

When he looks up, he sees the same determination on Nat's face. He lets a smile form and she matches it in that half amused way of hers. 

"So where are you going?"

"Somewhere in the 90s," he offers. Vague enough, falling back on his training. He doesn't really know this Nat, no matter how much she reminds him of his own Nat. 

"Really? I'd expected you to go when you met Laura."

Clint pauses. "Who's Laura?"

Nat blinks, takes a step closer. "Interesting," she says. "Who lives at the farmhouse?"

"My… dog," he says slowly, although the old farmhouse has been abandoned for years, and her eyes narrow. 

"Who else?"

"Who's Laura?"

She hums. Clint smirks.

"Are  _ we _ together?" she asks and Clint laughs a bit. 

"Hell no. The only time we fucked, we almost killed each other. We vowed never again."

So that didn't happen in her world. She's surprised and trying to hide it, and it reminds him of how Nat used to be with him, way before, when he was a bright-eyed newbie assassin and she recruited him into SHIELD. He'd had a crush the size of Antarctica on her. 

"Interesting," she says again. "You're different than my Clint. Not by much, but—" She lifts a hand. 

Clint nods, he gets it. "I think you're older in my world. Much older." Not that Nat ever shows her age, but there's something in her stance, something lighter in the way she holds herself.

"Well, you're like a brother to me in mine," she says with a grimace and Clint raises his arms in defense. 

"Sorry."

She shrugs, in a what-can-you-do way. And then, after a few breaths, she says, "Laura was your wife. You had three children. They were all gone in the snap."

"Wow."

"I see you've decided," Gamora, a little girl again, interrupts. "Enjoy your new lives. Oh, and don't worry, the side-effects are permanent."

She lifts both hands and snaps her fingers before Clint can even utter a bewildered, "What side-effects?"

~

It's November 5th, 1991. Clint knows exactly  _ when  _ because he knows exactly _ where  _ he is. It's a little after 2 AM and Clint is lying on his front on a rooftop, looking through the scope of a rifle that was shoved in his hands less than twelve hours earlier. 

It's cold.

The target is entering his residence, flicking the lights on one at a time as he passes through rooms. 

It's his first mission for SHIELD. Clint inhales steadily. A couple of weeks prior, he crossed paths with the infamous Black Widow and, instead of taking him out, she offered him a job. Nat never told him why she did what she did, back then, but she took a chance on him. She became everything he knew, his entire world. After some years, when the lack of aging would become suspicious, Nat started to move them around the SHIELD bases, never let them stay in one place for too long, never gave them the opportunity to get close to people. Carter had known, of course, and then Fury after her. When Clint was thirty-two, they faked Nat's death and pretended to bring in another Black Widow. Phil became their official handler. It was difficult to trust, but Phil was good at what he did; until he faced Loki and didn't live to tell the tale. 

Clint sighs, watching the target undress. Idiot exhibitionist, keeping his curtains drawn open like that, inviting bullets into his skull. His victims never asked for violence, though, and Clint is a great believer in just desserts. 

The first time he was here, Clint missed. The rifle was unfamiliar, his ass had been freezing out in the cold for hours, and he overestimated the wind velocity. He hadn't missed like that since he got his palms whipped. Almost five years before this point in time. Two since he'd been walking the mercenary path. It horrifies him, sometimes, when it hits him; he was a fucking  _ child _ , back then. With a huff, he pushes that away. Now is not the time to dwell on this, he has a decision to make. 

He hadn't known, first time around, that this mission was a test. John Garrett was in the tech van with Nat and Fury, watching. Clint missed and Garrett lost interest. If Clint hits his target now, it means he can use Garrett to infiltrate HYDRA. There is, however, an important issue with that. He doesn't know how effective their brainwashing methods might be and Clint won't take that risk. Besides, he already knows who the fuckers are, most of the important players anyway. And he'd rather have Nat by his side for this. 

He adjusts, inhales, and lets the bullet hit the wall beside the man's head. He packs the rifle quickly, retreats. Across the street, the asshole's bodyguards start shooting up the windows. Morons. 

Clint snorts as he slinks away. The first time around, he was breathless, panicking, mind reeling with possibilities of punishment. 

Not again, Nat took that conditioning out of him. He smiles, and as steady as he can while running, he makes his way to the extraction point. 

~ 

They transport him in an early version of a quinjet, alone. At HQ, they strip him of the gear, leave him in sweats and a t-shirt instead of heavy kevlar, just to make him feel vulnerable. He knows these tactics, though; they don't work on him. He's directed toward a debriefing room, but of course Clint detours and goes to park his butt in Nat's private gym. She liked taking people there, to interrogate. Or play with, if she was in the mood. Or simply train, if it was Clint. 

He takes off his sneakers and socks, leaves them by the door as he makes a round. He's missed this small windowless room padded with mats, with cupboards lining the far wall filled with weapons ranging from batons to knives to a very special pair of wooden sticks. He twirls one of them between his fingers. He had bruises for weeks from them. With a smile, he puts it back in its place.

He checks the time. Nat should be here soon, so he takes his position in the middle. There's a mirror in front of him and he uses it to adjust. Knees on the floor, hip-width apart, sitting back on his heels, pushed up on the balls of his feet. Shoulders down, head straight, arms behind his back, one hand wrapped around the other wrist. 

The body he's in now has no memory of this, so it takes a few fidgets until he finds the right tensing of muscles, until the soles of his feet stop screaming at him in pain. A couple more breaths and he's good.

He waits. 

The watch he placed in front of him on the thin mattress is ticking. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, half an hour. 

It's enough that his thoughts start to fly in dangerous directions, back toward everything he lost. Back to Nat's face—the  _ desperation _ on it—as he finally fell. That's not going to help him now, so he shakes it off, takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. 

He's… young. He didn't realize he looked so innocent at twenty. 

His body is untrained, though. Clint will have to compensate for any involuntary mishaps, but it's not impossible. He's in good shape. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's in amazing shape. The old aches and groans of his battered self are gone. There's no twitch in his thigh from that bullet wound, no jolt in his shoulder where the shrapnel almost tore his muscle to shreds, no sharp pain in the knee that never seems to go away. 

Weirdly, there's no lingering ache where Nat bruised his ribs when they were testing his reflexes the other day. 

The door opens and closes and he sees, through the mirror, as Nat falters near the entrance behind him. This is Nat, though. She covers her reaction well as she locks the door, removes her own shoes and walks to stand before him. Clint can't see her face anymore, but he won't break position. Not if he wants her to believe him. 

It takes a while before she lowers herself to the floor, cross-legged. She watches, intrigued. If Clint didn't know her so well, he'd say he's impassive. He lets the corner of his mouth twitch. 

Nat pulls a cigarette from the pack in her pocket. The lighter clicks loud in the silence, before she exhales noisily and taps at the watch between them. 

"How long?" 

Clint spares a glance to the hands. "Thirty-nine minutes." 

She shifts and a blade glints in her palm, resting on her bent knee. All right, then. Time to answer her questions, even though she's not saying them out loud.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," Clint says. "You go by Natasha these days. You were born in 1944 somewhere near Odessa. You were trained, you escaped, you work for SHIELD now. You recruited me in October '91 and trained me yourself. I've known you for thirty-two years."

She tilts her head minutely, assessing. 

"You told me once how you grew close to one of the girls in your unit. They found out and put a noose around her neck. Made you hold the counterweight keeping her alive. They put the rope in your hand, kneeling like this," he whispers. "You never let go, not for hours."

"And do you also know what they did to make me let go?"

"Yes," Clint says and waits. 

Her hand moves fast, slicing open the thin sweatpants he's wearing. The cigarette is hot where it hovers right next to the exposed skin of his thigh. Close, but not touching. Clint lets his eyelids fall halfway, keeps his breathing steady. 

"How long?" she asks again, but this time it means something different and they both know it. 

"Eight hours. I botched our first mission because I didn't listen to you and you made it clear. Hold position for eight hours or get thrown back out on the streets. I chose you."

The cigarette withdraws. She puts it out against the hilt of the knife and sticks the mangled half back into the pack. 

"And you made it to eight hours." Her tone is flat, but Clint can tell she's incredulous underneath. 

"Almost. Around hour seven I nearly collapsed. You told me how proud you were of me and it kept me going."

Nat scoffs. " _ Clearly _ , I was manipulating you."

"I know," Clint says quietly. Back then he didn't, or at least he didn't want to see it. He'd fallen into her hands just like everyone else she'd set her eyes on. "But in the end you loved me just as much as I love you."

"Love is—"

"For children, yes. I was yours in that way, like a child. You  _ made _ me, like a mother, like a sister. You're part of my family."

He sees her pupils dilate in that way she can't control, not when the thing she never allows herself to have is dangled in front of her.

"Part of," she repeats.

Clint looks at her. "We have a family, Nat. We trust them, we  _ chose _ them."

"You're lying."

"You know I'm not. You can tell."

"Then why are you here? I assume you time traveled, which is impossible, but if you already  _ know _ me, as you say, what other explanation is there?"

A short, bitter huff leaves Clint's lips. "I'm here because someone will hurt our family. In 2018 half of the living beings in the universe will be removed from existence. And I'm  _ kneeling _ here because we need to prevent that from happening."

Nat raises to her feet, then. She moves to the other side of the room, where Clint can't see her reflection in the mirror. 

Silence descends. 

The air is still, save for the ticking of the watch, Clint's heartbeat, the faint whisper of Nat's breaths. 

~

It's two hours later that she unfolds from where she'd been sitting and walks in front of him again. 

"So in thirty years..." She trails off and it hurts Clint in the middle of his chest.

"More like in twenty," he corrects. "That's when we'll meet most of them. Until then, you'll have me and one we need to extract in advance. If he'll trust us."

She steps closer, places her foot on his shoulder. "We spar now," she says and, without warning, her legs wrap around his neck. 

Clint twists, an arm sliding up between his head and her thigh to dislodge her grip. He gets free as quickly as possible when his entire body is a mass of tingling sensations. Nat strikes again, unrelenting, and there comes that stick. Clint laughs and blocks her blows. 

They grapple with each other, kicking and jumping and hitting walls at full force, and somewhere in there, Nat starts grinning, too. 

Yeah, she sees it, the effects of her training. 

They're sweaty, swaying slightly on their feet, after what feels like hours. He's bruised all over, the three lines where that wooden stick landed on his upper back throbbing hotly. Nat licks at her upper lip, catches a bead of sweat, and Clint knows they only have one more attack in them before they call it quits. 

And that's exactly when he lands on the knife that's been sitting forgotten on the mat. The sharp pain steals his breath as it slides into his side.

Clint rolls on his back just as Nat clambers into a crouch next to him. He grips for it, something in the back of his mind yelling at him to remove the blade—take it out  _ now _ —and, before he can think about what he's doing, against all of his training, he pulls the knife out.

"Barton!" Nat barks. "What the hell, you idiot. Don't move, I'll get medical in here."

Thing is, it doesn't really hurt anymore, but it itches like hell. 

"Wait," he says, as he pushes his t-shirt up. 

Blood is not gushing, like expected. The wound is not even sluggishly bleeding anymore, but that fucking itching almost has Clint stick the knife in again. Nat's fingers are there, though, pressing the broken edges together. 

It helps, a little. And then he sees it, as the skin knits itself into a rosy patch. The tissue inside must be doing the same, hence the sensation. 

"What the fuck," Clint says, disbelieving. 

"You're enhanced," Nat observes. She looks at him, a crease between her eyebrows. "You didn't know."

Clint wants to laugh, because of course. "Fucking side-effects," he mutters.

"Of time travel?"

"Apparently so," he says. It's not exactly a lie she can catch him with, because to her it does, indeed,  _ appear _ as though time travel gave him powers of healing. It's not the truth either, but she doesn't need to know how he died. If he can stop Thanos, nobody will have to time travel. 

She hums. "You seem a lot stronger than you were the other day, even with the training you remember."

"Really?"

She nods and lifts the hem of her shirt, revealing a mass of bruises underneath. Clint gasps.

"That's new," he breathes. 

Nat sits back, rubs a hand over her face. "Okay, Clint Barton. Okay. Strip."

~

They shower together in the small bathroom attached to the gym, because Nat doesn't look inclined to let him out of her sight. It's another way to assess him, but Clint can take it. It's not the first time they've been naked or bloody together. The lack of awkwardness seems to convince her further. She soaks his black t-shirt in cold water, enough to get most of the blood out, then rips it to shreds. 

Hiding the evidence, of course, and Clint grins. It's as clear a sign as any that she's decided his secrets are hers. And thus Clint is hers. 

The wound on his side is a pink scar now. It's healing at about the same rate as Nat does, the same as Steve. Thor recovers faster, but he's Thor. 

"I need to debrief you on why you missed," she says. 

"Inexperience," Clint offers. "You need to train me, but I can be a valuable asset. I'm susceptible to manipulation, you can control me."

Nat raises an eyebrow at him. 

"That's what your first report said," Clint tells her. "Besides, training is a good reason to take me off of SHIELD's radar for a few months."

"Is it now." It's not a question.

Clint plasters the most innocent smile he's capable of. 

"Barton."

"All right," Clint says, sobering. "SHIELD is compromised and that extraction I was telling you about is time sensitive."

"Compromised how?"

"Remember HYDRA?"

"From World War II? They were dismantled."

Clint shakes his head. "Not so much. They've been hiding within SHIELD for decades."

Nat swears.

~


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure you want to do this alone?" Nat asks.

Clint closes his eyes for a second, takes a moment to reconsider while he exhales through his nose. "I'm sure," he says. "I have to."

She doesn't argue, but nods instead. They've spent the last three weeks together with no breaks, no moments apart, and Clint knows it's because she's been testing him; see if he slipped in his story, but Clint has found it comforting. He takes her hand and intertwines their fingers. 

"He'll be more likely to attach to me if I'm alone," he repeats what he's said before, as cold as he can muster. Then, because she already knows it, he reckons, he adds, "He's family, too."

If he's going to extract Barnes, he's going to do it in such terms Clint knows Barnes would prefer, in the long run. He's always been a pragmatist, that guy. Always ready to put himself aside for the greater good and that's what Clint needs right now. Except when it comes to Steve, but Steve is nowhere near the equation right now, so he's not an issue. 

Besides, he doesn't want to drag Nat into it. Best to leave all wrath to fall on Clint, if any, after all this is done. More than that, Nat needs to take care of something else right now.

"Be careful," she says. 

They stand there, watching the slopes of the mountains stretching before them. It's always been calming to Clint, this particular place, even overlaid onto happy childish shrieks and continuous—beautifully exquisite—chatter about everything and anything. He's had his morning coffee on the future version of this porch every day for years. Now it's empty, smaller, foreign in a familiar way. 

"Why this particular cabin?" Nat asks. 

In the old life, Clint had gotten it cheap. After Loki he managed to blow up part of the farmhouse in a fit of frustrated rage, and guilt, and pain; so he moved to a location as different as possible. Upstate New York was closer to the theatre of his failure, but that helped. The Avengers too, visiting one by one and then all together until Tony sent a construction crew to expand the cabin from its two meager rooms to an entire house. 

Right now, though, it's small and dusty and not yet decrepit. He's here early. 

"It's home," Clint says. 

Nat looks sharply at him, eyes narrowing. 

Clint shakes his head. "Don't. At this moment in time this place has no connection to anyone. It sat abandoned since it was built in '85 until I bought it in 2013. There are no dots to be connected."

She lets out a long exhale through her nose. "It's unnerving." And then, because this is Nat, after all, she turns to him, places a hand on his neck. "Let's make one thing clear. I'm going along with your plan for now, but if I ever discover you're playing me, you'll be eating your own balls for dinner."

Lifting his hands in surrender, Clint smiles. "That threat never worked on me."

Her fingers squeeze at the sides of his neck in warning. 

"I understand," he says, "how strange it must be. To be given genuine affection."

"It's incomprehensible."

Clint swallows against her palm, lifts his own to pet at her knuckles. She lets go, eventually, hiding the maelstrom of emotion Clint is quite sure she's feeling. From her point of view, he's one of the very few people she hasn't manipulated into loving her. 

"Why do you keep doing that?" she asks.

"Doing what?"

"You keep touching your ears."

"Oh." Clint lets his hand fall. "Force of habit, I guess. I used to turn my aids off all the time."

"You got hurt."

Clint scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, but if it happens again, I dunno, being enhanced kinda robs me of that."

"Do you _ want _ to lose your hearing?"

"I guess it's a part of me." He shrugs. He knew, when he decided to restart this from this point in time, he might need to make sacrifices, but some losses are unexpected. "We'll see when we get there."

"Okay."

That's the end of that, it seems, because Nat's demeanor shifts to business as she looks back out over the forest. 

"It's both infuriating and admirable how they managed to avoid discovery," she says. "How did Carter not see it? How did _ we _?"

"In our defense, we were never big on socializing. And you, you were always a too formidable operative to approach. After what you did to Red Room, I doubt they even considered you an option. They must've kept you in SHIELD to keep an eye on you."

Nat's tuts under her breath. "Idiots. They should've taken me out first chance."

He checks his watch. "You have to leave now if you want to make your flight. I don't like it that we don't have a direct line to each other."

"Can't use SHIELD tech, you know that."

"Yeah. Check-in in twelve hours, then." 

She nods and Clint nods with her. There's a payphone in the nearby town that they decided to use. It will have to do until another option arises. 

"Nat," he says as she straddles her bike. "Be careful, too."

She smiles, gives him a wink, and then is gone.

Clint goes to work. 

~

The front of the cabin is a regular kitchen and living room combination. There's already a table there, chairs, a ratty couch, and a stove. Further back, a small bedroom and beyond it the bathroom. Clint moves the furniture out into the front area, leaving the bedroom bare. Then, he reinforces key parts. A metal plate is connected to a counterpart on the outside of the cabin and held in place by crossing rods, so that the entire west wall would have to come down before the plate is removed from it. The floor plate is drilled into the cement with long bolts keeping it secure, and then down in the basement he knocks the ends of those bolts askew so they don't come out easily. He anchors rings of sturdy metal to the plates, then connects the chains he's stolen from a shipyard; a cuff on the end of one, and a metal collar for the other. Last, he installs an industrial magnet he's procured in the small basement, tests its hold of a second cuff by using one of the chains and his bike. It holds and Clint hopes it will be enough. 

Nat checks in every 24 hours. She's been surveilling Pierce in DC. Eleven days later she discovers which strike team Pierce uses to control the Winter Soldier and trails them south of New York where they set up in an empty warehouse. Their asset is not there, not yet, and Nat theorizes he'll be brought in at a later time, closer to the mission start. Clint doesn't contradict. Doesn't tell her the large crate they brought with them contains said asset. He doesn't have the heart.

"I'll take it over from here," he tells her during her call. "Thanks." 

"On to the next target, then."

Clint takes a deep breath. He'd be more at ease if they had Fury and Coulson watching their backs, but those two have their own paths to follow. Fury needs to remain trusting enough to connect to Carol Danvers when she arrives, so he must be left out of the loop for a while longer. And Clint is not sure he's ready to see Phil yet. 

"Reconnaissance first," Clint urges again. 

Nat scoffs over the line. "I'm not stupid. I won't make a move on Stark on his own terf."

"If you stumble upon Tony—"

"Watch but don't interfere, I know." She's quiet for a moment, then, "This must be difficult for you. To sit back and let things happen."

Clint leans his forehead against the edge of the payphone's casing. It's gritty and sharp and it focuses his attention on the present. "Some events are necessary. We have to let history unfold by itself in some ways, otherwise we won't get our family as we know them."

She's silent, waiting. 

"It's not fun," Clint admits, in the end. "But it's what the task requires."

"You sound like me." And then, quietly, she says, "I'm starting to like you, Clint Barton, just a little bit."

It pulls a laugh out of him. 

"Right," she continues. "Did you finish testing your new strength?"

"Yes. The limits we discovered together hold. I have to adjust a lot, especially when using the bow, but it's not unlearnable."

"Good. Talk tomorrow then."

"Bye, Nat." The dial tone fills the air. "Be safe," he whispers, mostly for himself.

~

Clint has read the file with the December 16th, 1991 mission report more than once. It provided plenty of information, except most of it was not useful. Clint knew where the attack on the Starks would take place, but nothing about the support team was ever included in the file. Nothing about equipment or why there were cameras installed on a back road in the middle of nowhere. It was fishy enough to begin with.

From what Tony had told him about his father, Howard was paranoid enough to think it was safest to transport a dangerous supersoldier serum all by himself in a nondescript car, with his wife next to him. Like hiding it in plain sight. Stark men had a tendency to not ask for help. Only, in the violent world of Pierce and HYDRA, it didn't work like that. The use of the Soldier seemed over the top; a regular strike team would have sufficed. Hell, one sniper and one operative would have been enough. 

Maybe Pierce was expecting some sort of elaborate defense from Howard. Maybe using the Soldier and filming the whole thing was supposed to give him leverage over something or someone. Perhaps Obadiah Stane, since he'd be a major player in Stark Industries, was an additional target, one to whom Pierce would be able to say, "Look what I did to your friend."

In any case, Clint needed access to whichever location they'd chosen as mission center; to take out the team and the medics and to confiscate the drugs they used to keep Barnes compliant. He doesn't need the trigger commands, he knows them by heart, but if he happens upon the red book serving as a user manual, too, it would come in handy as a prop.

User manual. Clint almost spits, but he swallows the bile instead. He can't leave his DNA near the warehouse where the team is prepping their asset. Four specialists and two medics. Should be easy. Clint watches them for the next few days, learns their patterns, although they go the extra mile _ not _ to fall into routines. Not obvious ones, anyway. But Clint's been on jobs like this before, it can get incredibly boring, all this waiting around. 

It's December 12th when they defrost Barnes. He takes two days and a helluva lot of drugs to become operational. 

They wipe him, once, and Clint has to bite hard into his knuckles not to scream, too. Has to remind himself of what he's fighting for, of laughter and kisses and coffee in the morning out on the porch. Has to, so he doesn't rush in there and ruin everything. 

The footage mystery is resolved. They mount a camera on Barnes' bike and give him another with orders to set it up in a nearby tree. They're state of the art, too, for '91, with wireless transmission to the recorder installed in one of the two saddle bags, alongside weapons and other supplies. 

When he leaves, he is under strict command not to use the face guard. So they want him visible…

It hits Clint, then, that maybe Stark was getting close to find where Cap is buried. That maybe Pierce did this in both anticipation of needing to keep Peggy Carter, director of SHIELD, in check—because who else would care so much about Steve's friend—and to encourage the discovery: since the supersoldier serum was already in Stark's possession, why would he need the remains of one Steve Rogers? 

There's a fine tremble in Clint's hands as he draws the first arrow, overwhelmed by the immensity of this very plausible possibility. By the time he draws the string, though, he's refocused on his own mission. One villain at a time. 

He passes through the warehouse silently, and after all six agents fall, he pulls out a handgun with a silencer. Shoots them all through the arrow wounds to disguise the manner of death. One can never be too careful, not even if he burns the place down. 

He rigs it to go off in two days, plants some signs that say _ Chemical Spill, Keep Clear _ around, just in case some daring kids try to sneak in, although this area already smells so bad from the sewage treatment facility down the road that he's barely seen anyone. It's a remote, inaccessible enough location, a good choice for the op. 

Before he leaves he grabs everything he needs, including tools for the metal arm and maintenance instructions. No hidden tracker is listed on the Soldier's flesh body, which is fortunate. If Clint's been cursing the lack of advanced tech a little before, he's grateful for it now. However, there appears to be a radio transmitter with a short radius in his arm, under the third plate from the shoulder joint, and Clint makes a note to destroy it. 

They really transported him with all that info; it amazes Clint how stupid that is. But also, it makes sense if he was kept permanently mobile, he'd have been harder to discover. The red notebook is there, too, and so are an array of drugs and medical supplies. Clint's glad he brought a van instead of his own bike. 

After urgent matters will be finished, he'll be going to the decommissioned missile silo that hosted the other winter soldiers and perform further decommissioning. He has an inkling both Nat and Barnes would like to participate.

~

It's not hard to catch up to the Soldier. Clint knows where he's going, knows from where he'll take the first shot to stop the car. What is difficult is sneaking up on him undetected. 

He approaches when Barnes, highly focused on the task of assembling his rifle, makes noise himself. Clint's maybe five steps away when Barnes freezes. He goes completely still, in an instant, and Clint doesn't even draw breath as he rushes ahead. 

He manages to wrap the wide strip of leather he's prepared for this around Barnes' neck before he turns around fully. Clint jumps while he pulls, braces his feet onto Barnes' shoulders, holds on.

There's a fine line between snapping a neck and cutting off blood supply. 

Clint trembles, bordering between too much force and not enough, when Barnes drops to the ground. It could be a ruse, so he doesn't let go immediately. With one hand, he retrieves the syringe from the makeshift pouch at his belt and injects Barnes. 

He checks and there's still a pulse. 

Only then does he allow himself to flop back and _ breathe _. 

~

There's a bruise already forming on Barnes' throat when Clint hefts him over his shoulder. Even with the new strength, Barnes is still really heavy and Clint is panting by the time he has the man in the van. He loads the bike, too, cleans up any traces that indicate they were there, makes sure the bits of the crumbled radio transmitter aren't littering the ground. If anyone looks, they wouldn't be able to tell that the Soldier made it to the designated location. 

His travel north is undisturbed. He stops by the nearest payphone, calls the one Nat's waiting next to back in New York. 

"Hi honey, I picked up the cake," Clint says. "The surprise party is all set."

"Good. I'm getting that present we talked about."

"Smooches."

They both hang up without further talk. Nat seems to be on schedule. She'll retrieve the serum like they planned, by swiping it at a traffic light before the Starks are even properly out of the city. Nat's good at these things. 

Which makes it even more intriguing why HYDRA felt the need to show off their super secret asset for a job that could've been done stealthily. 

~

When he reaches the cabin, he strips Barnes out of his gear and leaves him in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. He locks the cuffs around his wrists; right hand one connects to the chain anchored to the floor, the left one is caught in the magnetic field that will keep the metal arm in place. Finally the collar goes around the neck to be secured to the far wall. Two strips of cloth go under the collar and on top of his neck arteries, creating pressure there if he tries to force the chain to break. He's going to knock himself unconscious before he can hurt himself. Done, Clint steps back to survey the room. Like this, Barnes can't move more than a few inches. He can lie down and sit on the floor, but that's just about it with the left wrist pinned down.

Next, he sorts the drugs and identifies the cocktail that keeps Barnes an amnesiac, that holds his memories of his life at bay, and he prepares several doses, creates a schedule. This is needed, sadly, because going off it abruptly would not serve Barnes, nor would it Clint and Nat. The last thing they need is for Barnes to escape in a nightmare-induced panic and fall back into HYDRA's hands. Steve would be disappointed. 

Seeing him there, chained and on the floor, Clint's heart twists. He's reminded of a similar moment, when Clint was the one tied down in medical on the helicarrier, with Nat patiently waiting by his side. 

With a deep inhale, Clint steels himself. He'll get Barnes through this as gently as he can. 

~

Nat arrives mid-morning and throws a sat phone at Clint. 

"Where'd you get this?" he asks. 

"Swiped a pair from Carter's private vault. Don't worry, they're untraceable."

"Nat," he starts to say, but she cuts him off with a gesture. Against the grey of the mountain in this crisp winter morning, her hair looks aflame. 

"She doesn't know. Even if she did, I have permission to take anything from there, no questions asked."

"Really." He had no idea. "You never told me this."

"It wasn't your business. Me and Peggy, we go way back, but it's always been a connection we needed to keep private. This way I can do things for her in the shadows and she can do things for me outside the shadows. Now stop doubting me."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"She needs to know, Clint, that HYDRA is under her nose."

"You know we can't."

Nat looks up at the sky and says nothing for a while. Clint hands her his coffee mug, a peace offering that she accepts. 

"What's your progress here?" she asks.

"He's still asleep." A sudden thought pokes at Clint. "Wait. Where'd you put the serum?"

Nat smirks like she ate several canaries. 

"You didn't."

"Don't worry, she's out of the country until next month, organizing new outposts in Europe. The serum is safe there. Nobody even knows that vault exists."

"You mean the one under the Triskelion?"

"That's the public vault, Barton. The _ decoy _."

Clint groans. "Okay, you know what? I trust you."

She blinks as if she didn't believe it until now. 

A snowflake lands on Nat's shoulder while they're still staring at each other like idiots. 

"So," Nat says, "on to the next target," and Clint nods.

She's going undercover with Stark, to find and destroy all research related to the supersoldier serum, keep an eye on the investigation of the theft, and perhaps even find a weakness to exploit in order to dissuade him from continuing said research. With her there, Clint will also know the movements of the Starks at any time, which means he'll be able to—to—

But Nat doesn't know about his plan to orphan Tony all over again, so he keeps himself from spilling all this hurt at her.

The ghost of happy giggling follows her as she rides off, leaving Clint with his demons. 

~

According to the schedule, Barnes should be receiving what Clint's been dubbing memory drug in about six hours. He's been out since last night, which makes it almost half a day, but his pulse stays constant and Clint's not worried. He should be waking up soon anyway. 

Clint is pouring coffee into his mug when he hears a groan and movement. He'd removed the door from the frame between the two rooms because Clint needs to permeate openness. Needs to obtain Barnes' loyalty in a different way than what he's used to. 

He's aiming for trust—_ yearns _ for it—but he's not kidding himself. Loyalty would be enough to start, and then, when he's stable and able to care for himself, Barnes will get to decide if he trusts Clint. 

As expected, Barnes struggles against the binds, chains rattling, while Clint retrieves the red notebook. By the time he sits cross-legged in the doorway, Barnes has apparently decided to save his strength and is instead observing the room. Clint, too, although he doesn't look directly at him. He sips at his coffee. 

"Morning," he says. 

Barnes is in an awkward kneel, with the left palm against the floor. He has to tilt to keep strain off the connector in his shoulder, and it's visible in the way the rest of his body is corded with tension. His eyes keep shifting about, not exactly glaring, but calculating. Planning.

"Don't try to escape," Clint says. "You'll only hurt yourself." 

No answer comes. No acknowledgement at all. 

"Even if you make it out of this room, I'll catch you. Believe me, I will." 

And that brings those eyes on him. Clint is dressed in tactical gear, boots and a kevlar vest that reminds him of his favorite uniform. He misses it, to be honest. He's kept it light, a t-shirt underneath instead of full sleeves, no visible weapons on his person, to project the combined image of being carefree and prepared at the same time. To instill the fact that he is confident in the success of Barnes' confinement.

Barnes does see those differences between themselves and, finally, opens his mouth. He closes it and opens it again, as if he doesn't know what to say. Fuck. How long has it been since he'd spoken to anyone? Clint drinks more coffee to remove that lump in his throat. 

"My name is Clint," he says. "You're in my home."

Barnes blinks at him, almost uncomprehending. 

"I'm going to explain the situation to you and I need you to pay careful attention. Can you do that? Can you focus on me?"

There's a beat as Barnes watches—Clint would say warily, but his face is impassive—before he nods once, sharp.

"Good," Clint says. "First off, let's get some things cleared up." 

He retrieves the notebook from where it was resting behind him, out of sight, and opens it. Barnes' eyes widen slightly. Clint looks straight at him, not even a glance on the page, as he speaks. 

"_ Želanie _."

Barnes twitches.

"_ Pžavyj _."

The chain rattles. 

"_ Semnadtsat' _."

Barnes' inhale hitches, and in the quiet of the mountain it's almost as loud as the chain.

"I won't finish the sequence," he says. "But I want you to be aware that I know it." Clint closes the book and lifts it in demonstration. "Also, everything they used to control you with is in my possession now. Your handler team is dead." 

He takes a moment to let that sink in.

"You're never going back to them. You belong with me now. Do you understand, Soldat?"

Barnes exhales harshly through his nose and Clint sees the first signs of emotion in his eyes. Hope warring with fear. It's a start. 

"Yes, sir," he says. 

"Good," Clint replies. "Do you want water?"

A nod this time and Clint fills a metal bottle, and carefully approaches Barnes. He's tilting the bottle to his mouth, when Barnes strikes with his legs. But he's slow, still weakened by the sedative—and possibly lack of hydration, nutrition, _ fucking human treatment _—that Clint jumps away easily. It's not a pretty sight, how Barnes' entire body twists painfully, his airflow cut off by the motion as he jerks in the chains. 

He's in a heap on the floor, on his back, left arm in a position that can't be comfortable. 

Clint steps up to him. 

"Are you done?"

It takes a while, but finally Barnes nods. Clint helps him up to a seated position, has him drink half the bottle before retreating back to the doorway. 

"Okay," Clint says. "Now that that's out of the way, second thing you need to know is that while I might withhold information from you until it's relevant, I won't lie to you. If I can't divulge the truth, I will say so, but I will not deceive you. Do you understand?"

Barnes looks at him like he grew another head. Clint sighs.

"Do you understand, Soldat?"

Barnes swallows. "Yes, sir."

Clint finishes the cold coffee in two gulps before he speaks again. 

"Here's the thing. I know you. I know who you are, what you are, where you come from and I know your friends and your family."

There's that rattle again as Barnes jerks against the chains. 

"_ Our _ friends and _ our _ family."

Barnes is barely breathing anymore, eyes as wide as they go. 

"That's right," Clint continues. "I extracted you because you're family. You belong with me, not them. And I plan on giving you all the details of your life in a way that won't hurt you."

There's disbelief on that tortured face, like this is the most painful thing his handlers could have done to him, like he's on the verge of breaking. Like he will completely and utterly shatter. 

"I'm not lying to you," Clint reminds him. "Keep that in mind."

Barnes shakes his head. He's trembling all over. "I've been good. I complied."

"I know you have. This is not a lie or a test. This is the truth. It's okay if it's hard to believe."

~

Clint stays in the line of sight of the bedroom door as he makes himself another coffee. He's giving Barnes time to mull over the new information. Clint's been rash, admitting they were connected like that. He should've waited, established a more imbalanced rapport, so that Barnes remains pliant in his hands, but that sliver of hope in his eyes is what got to Clint. He sends a mental apology to future-Bucky and pushes himself to keep strong. He has a mission. 

Barnes is sitting with one knee up, forehead pressed onto it, the fingers of his flesh hand clutching rhythmically at the hem of his pant leg. It causes Clint to flash back—a very long time in the future—when Tony sat in the same room at the edge of Clint's mattress, hugging his knees to his chest. Sobbing in the middle of the night. 

It was the first post-snap night they spent here, in this very cabin, after Nat had dropped him and Morgan off. Tony looked too thin, face drawn and pale, movements sickly. Morgan wouldn't stop crying, not until Clint sat back against the headboard, rocking her gently. 

The heavy chain thuds against the floor as Barnes moves and Clint turns to him. 

"May I have more water?"

"Of course," Clint says and helps him drink the rest of the bottle. 

Clint retakes his position, warm mug in his hands, prepared to continue, but Barnes speaks first. 

"What's my name?" His voice is scratchy. 

"James."

Barnes mouths it, trying to fit it to himself, and Clint thinks it only works in part. 

"How… how long?"

"They had you for a very long time," Clint admits. "But I can't give you the exact answer right now. Remember what I said."

"You won't lie but you won't tell me everything."

"That's right."

"And I won't go back."

"Not while I'm still alive." Clint is surprised by his own fierceness, but it seems to settle something in Barnes because he sits up straighter, as if he's reached a decision. 

"Sir," he says, "the team, they weren't my regular handlers. There's—there's others. They'll find us. Colonel Karpov and—and _ him _."

Clint smiles. "We'll take care of them when the time comes. Until then, you're safe here."

Barnes is not convinced, but he won't be, not immediately, no matter what Clint says. So he moves the conversation to more pressing matters. 

"All right. I need to explain what's going to happen, and why we're here. It will sound far fetched, but you have to remember. I won't lie."

There's a crease forming between Barnes' eyebrows and Clint's heart gives a pang. It must be overwhelming, but he can't postpone this. Barnes has a right to know why Clint is going to do what he plans on doing. 

"I've already lived this life once," he says. "I know what the future holds for us, I know which of our family will be hurt and how. I've seen the end of the world as we know it and I've thrown myself off a cliff to undo it."

Barnes blinks.

"I don't know if I should call it a miracle, but I was given a second chance, and I chose to come back here, way before our family is even together, to fix a few things. I've extracted you from enemy hands twenty years in advance. Could've just gone back to the moment I died, could've lived on like that, but I wanted to spare people dear to me a lot of pain."

"Not lying," Barnes mutters, mostly for himself. 

Clint confirms it anyway. "No," he says. 

"And I'm d—" He chokes on the word and Clint draws a deep breath. 

"You and I were never that close, but you're very important. You caused a rupture in our family, though it wasn't your fault. Never your fault. However, when a powerful enemy attacked, we were too scattered. We lost, and half of the living beings in the universe disappeared through our fingers. You were one of them."

The coffee is cold already. Clint drinks it anyway, his throat is dry. 

"Thirty years from now," he continues, "I lived here, in this very spot, with my husband and his daughter. _ My _ daughter, too, I suppose. Her mother was killed in an attempt on his life, because he'd failed to save us all. He was so damaged..."

Clint rubs at his eyes, steadies himself again. 

"But we pushed through despite everything. We found comfort in each other, we built something together. In the timeline he lives in, he's lost me, too. In this one, here, this one," he says, poking at the floorboards with his finger, "I have a chance to make sure the pain he suffers is minimal. I can bring him to where he was the happiest, when his wife was still alive, even if it takes him away from me. We must work together for that to happen. First step was to save his parents from you, and that's why you're here at this point in time."

Barnes is shaking. Clint is shaking. Hell, the world feels like it's going to tip off its axis because although everything of what he's just said has been relentlessly on his mind, this is the first time he's uttered it out loud. He hasn't even told Nat about Tony and Morgan. 

"So, here's the deal. You help me keep him on his path, help me gather our family, help me strike the enemy down before he attacks. You do that and I'll answer any questions you have. I'll help you overcome your conditioning, help you remember."

Barnes doesn't say anything. He sits there, his breaths a little heavier than usual, eyes shifting from Clint to somewhere in the middle distance. He must need that dose sooner than expected. Clint fetches the first syringe. 

He goes to kneel in front of Barnes, holds it up for him to see. 

"This is the drug that keeps those memories at bay. You're starting to have flashes, aren't you?"

Barnes chews at his bottom lip and doesn't say anything. 

"Let's do it like this, then," Clint offers. "You let me inject you with this, let me wean you off of it gradually, and I'll take it as your answer that you want to help. If you won't, we'll sit here for a few weeks as you go through a very painful withdrawal instead of hunting down the people who hurt you, instead of working for the future of our family. Your choice."

The silence is oppressing. Barnes draws blood from his lip and he looks between Clint and the drug. It feels like an eternity passes before Barnes nods at the syringe, then tips his head to the side, exposing his neck. 

"I'm not gonna do it like that," Clint says, gentle. 

According to instructions it needs to go into the bloodstream, so the arm will suffice, it seems more humane to Clint anyway. He fetches a tourniquet and disinfectant, prepares Barnes' arm carefully after he rolls his sleeve up. Clint grips at his elbow to steady him as he administers the shot. He keeps his hand there when done, rubbing absently at the fading indentation left by the rubber, and watching closely for side-effects. That's when he sees it. Barnes shudders, eyelids half-closed, swaying slightly into Clint. 

Fuck. 

How long has he been—_ fuck _. Clint brings his other hand on Barnes' forearm, pets the skin there slowly. 

He's touch starved, that much is clear, and Clint goes back to his observations of the treatment the Soldier went through in that warehouse. They dressed him, medicated, strapped down, but they never touched him. 

Clint closes his eyes for a moment and shivers with him.

~


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later—and a few embarrassing uses of a bedpan—Clint thinks it's time for Barnes to shower. To say he reeks is putting it mildly. So Clint drags in an extra length of chain, helps Barnes out of the shirt before extending the line from the collar to the wall. He releases his wrists right before it's time for a new dose, just to test his theory, and Barnes does not disappoint.

He's eager to stretch out his arm. It leaves Clint a little nauseous, because this has been an unintended consequence. Barnes now associates gentle touches to his bare skin with receiving the drug. It makes it both easier and more sickening. 

He should stop touching him during the shots, but Clint can't. _ Can't, _ when it reminds him of the same way Wanda used to sway toward him, the same way Steve grappled too long and too lingering during their sparring sessions. All of them, fucked up and touch starved and somehow Clint had ended up as the one dishing out easy pats on the back, a hug here and there. 

Or he should start touching Barnes at other moments, too, but Clint can't bring himself to do that either, not while Barnes doesn't have full knowledge of his own self. And that's bullshit and he knows it. Clint can't because then there's a higher risk that Barnes will attach himself even more than intended to Clint and that's—Clint has enough unwanted attachment growing inside himself already. 

He's stupid like that when it comes to them all. They'd managed to put him in the middle of their Barnes-related feud and Clint was angry at both Steve and Tony for it, so much so that he'd locked himself up here and refused to see them for months after he'd gotten out of the Raft. 

And now Barnes is in his hands. 

"Go shower," Clint tells him after he finishes with the dose. 

The chain is long enough for him to use the bathroom, reaches a couple of steps into the front room as well. Barnes could even climb out of the window, if he put his mind to break through the metal rods, but that wouldn't do him much good unless he takes the whole cabin down. It's the best compromise he has right now. 

Barnes stands in the bathroom for a long time, staring at himself in the mirror, flesh fingertips resting on the reflection. His hair is long, beard scruffy and unkempt, face gaunt and skin a little clammy. Despite all that, he's aware of his surroundings, coherent, eats and drinks everything Clint gives him. So, Clint rekons, things are going well enough. 

~

Until, that is, the middle of their ninth night there. Clint is lying on the bed in the front room, watching the shadows of the trees on the ceiling, trying to keep his mind blank enough that he catches some sleep, when he hears it. 

A gasping, shuddery inhale. 

Then another. 

The chain drags on the floor for a bit, there's the rustle of clothes. 

And utter silence. 

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose before he rolls off the mattress. It's dark but the sky is clear and moonlight is streaming in from the windows. Enough to see Barnes huddled against the wall, both hands pressed to his mouth, like he's _ trying _ to be quiet. 

There's a moment—a tiny, horrifying moment—when Clint approaches and Barnes raises his arms above his head. It's an aborted gesture, but one that speaks volumes. With a sigh, Clint slides down the wall to sit on his right. 

He presses their shoulders together, holds there while Barnes' breathing hitches and then turns into harsh wheezes. He keeps leaning into Clint, further and further, until his forehead is somewhere on Clint's chest and Clint can't take it anymore. He wraps an arm around Barnes' shoulders—

The sob that follows is devastating. 

"Okay, okay," Clint mutters, mostly to himself. "Come here."

And now he has a lap full of assassin crying into his t-shirt, shaking with the force of it, ugly and loud and utterly raw. All Clint can do is whisper a litany of "It's okay, James, let go," over and over, rub at his back, hold him close.

~

There's a wetness on Clint's chest, maybe even a generous amount of snot, but Barnes—_ James _—is not moving from his spot. He's curled sideways between Clint's extended legs, hands fisted in Clint's t-shirt, temple resting on Clint's shoulder. 

He sounds like it hurts to breathe, hiccuping from time to time, oscillating between tense and lax. Clint shudders when he does. 

He pushes James' hair out of his face, rubs a little at the back of his head in an attempt to comfort. 

"Nightmare?"

"Yes," James says, voice cracking. 

"What about?"

It's a little surprising how fast James answers, but Clint takes it as a sign James feels safe around him. 

"Dirt. Bombs. Screaming. They commanded me to kill you, but you were wearing a white star on your chest and the knife wouldn't go through. Like you were holding a shield, but I couldn't see it."

Clint is so preoccupied to find an adequate reply, he almost missed the next words, small and timid even in the dark. 

"I don't wanna kill you."

"I believe you," he says instead of anything else that passes through his mind. 

Silence falls on them for a while, and James still doesn't even twitch. Clint's fingers snag onto the chain while he swipes down that broad back.

"Why haven't you asked me to remove this?" They're hitting the ten days mark tomorrow and James hasn't even tried to break the links.

"It's safer like this."

"How so?"

He shifts a little, then, but not enough to dislodge himself from Clint's hold. 

"It's easier to avoid mistakes, so you won't have to use the words. If you don't give me a specific command, I'll go back to them, it's how they work. I don't wanna go, wanna stay with you."

Clint wants to hit something, but he manages to say, "I see," in a neutral tone. Maybe he needs new rules and to lengthen the chain again, start on gradually getting James used to his autonomy. 

"Could you—" James begins, pulling Clint from his thoughts, then halts. 

"Yes?" Clint encourages.

"Could you maybe stop lowering the doses? Just for a little while," he adds when Clint gapes like a fish. "Just for the mission. Otherwise I'm not gonna be able to be good. It hurts too much and I won't be able to comply."

Clint squeezes involuntarily so hard, James' bones creak under the strain. 

"Please, sir." There's an edge of desperation there, and Clint forces himself to relax. 

"Okay, but you have to stop calling me sir."

There's a longer pause this time, as if James is seriously considering if he can obey this innocuous request and Clint berates himself internally. Of course he would.

"You know what? You call me whatever the hell you want. We'll maintain the dosage, see how that works for you."

And that, finally, earns him a whispery, "Thank you, sir."

It's never been more obvious to Clint that while he's held an immense amount of sympathy for his fellow brainwashed assassin, he doesn't really know what Bucky went through to get to where he was before the snap. There are similarities between them, but the differences have never been more evident. Clint's time under Loki had been a lot shorter, and everything leading up to that mess had been guided by Clint's own choices. But now he wonders, how much freedom had Bucky had? The war was thrust upon him, then Steve kept him there, and then—

There's a tight band of ache around Clint's chest that doesn't seem to go away. It's worth it, though, because Steve won't have to lie to Tony, Tony will be spared the betrayal, and Bucky won't be caught in the middle of this. 

James. Barnes. Whatever.

With a sigh, Clint closes his eyes, lets his head rolls against the wall. So much for keeping his distance. 

~

In the harsh light of day, Clint is very much aware that he needs Bucky by his side when he goes after Nebula. Conditioning like they've both been through would serve as the common grounds which will help Bucky turn her. That's another reason why Clint needs to be careful with Bucky right now. 

Danvers' return to Earth is four years away, and although Clint promised to continue the medication, it's not a sustainable solution. Bucky's been burning through it so fast, that Clint is convinced whatever enhancement he has, it's fighting against the drug. 

Fortunately, he has about two months' worth of supply at the current rate, and by then he's sure he'll figure a way to get Bucky off it. For right now, though, the most urgent matter is to stop further production of the supersoldier serum. Then to Siberia to destroy the last traces of the Winter Soldier. 

He's out on the porch this morning, with his coffee, watching the white expanse of snow before them. He's wondering if maybe he could rebuild the house sooner, before Tony starts complaining about not having a decent bed to sleep in when visiting. Something bitter collects in the back of his throat, but before he can let it choke him, the sat phone rings. 

Nat's on her way with updates. 

~

"Happy New Year," she says, throwing a bag of expensive coffee at him. 

He eyes it warily. "Thanks… maybe some pizza next time?"

She nods with only slight distaste. "How's he?"

Clint makes a so-and-so gesture. "He considers me his new handler, but he's afraid that he'll make a mistake which will either make me ditch him, or will inadvertently trigger him to return to some pre-programed location. By his logic, he'd be at fault."

Nat makes an acknowledging hum. "Verbal assurances won't work."

"No," Clint agrees. "We have to put down the bastards in front of him. How'd you do with Stark?"

"No good, he's determined to recreate Steve Rogers somehow. He's borderline obsessed with him, with Captain America. Tony's suffering for it."

Clint rubs at his eyebrow. Well, there would be a solution, to distract Stark by telling him where Cap is buried. But then Steve won't have Sam to lean on when he needs it the most, and Clint feels like reviving him ahead of time should only be a last resort solution. 

"I have to take him out," he says.

"Or we can tell both him and Carter that Barnes is alive. Surely they'll want a hand in fighting HYDRA again."

"Carter has Alzheimer's and honestly I have no idea where Stark stands. He was long dead before I learned _ any _of this."

Nat sits on the bench next to him. "She isn't showing any symptoms yet and if we explain, I'm sure she'll agree I should take her out when they start. She wouldn't compromise us."

It's a good argument, Clint has to admit. 

"I'll think about it. But Stark is a definite no, he's a liability."

"Fine. When?"

Clint looks back to the cabin wall behind him. "In the next few days if possible. It will be a good opportunity to see how he reacts in the field."

"Okay. I'll call with his schedule once I get my hands on it. I should go. I need to send a report to SHIELD about the progress of your training."

"Wait," Clint says as she stretches. "Do you wanna meet him? There's something you can do that might help."

~

When Clint slips back inside, Bucky is standing next to the stove. The chain trails behind him, still connected to the wall. It's the longest that it would ever be, Clint has no more reserves, and it only allows Bucky to reach two steps away from the door. He takes a moment to observe and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders when Barnes became Bucky. 

"It didn't overflow this time," Bucky says and waves both hands at the pan of coffee. He picks it up, hot as it is, with his metal hand, then pours it gently, delicately, into a mug. 

"Good job," he offers, making sure it comes across genuine, as he accepts the drink. 

Bucky had been getting antsy the other day, after that nightmare-induced release. Clint finds preparing coffee calming, and, well, it seems to have worked in giving Bucky's hands something to do. He pours some of it for himself as well, makes a face when tasting it. He's not much of a fan, clearly, and it's endearing how he tries it for taste over and over with the same result, the same cautious hope before it reaches his mouth. Clint should reintroduce him to tea. Or sugar and cream. 

"Someone was here," Bucky says, eyes trained on the cup balanced between his flesh fingers, half a mouthful at the bottom. "I heard voices."

"That someone is part of our family and she is still here. She wants to see you."

Bucky doesn't respond verbally, but sets the cup down and stands up straighter. Clint goes to open the door. 

"This is Natasha," he says once she's inside. "She's _ my _ handler."

The reaction is immediate. Bucky goes completely still, tensing as if his muscles don't know which way to go. Until, that is, Nat says, "At ease," and he relaxes, albeit minutely. Clint mimics his posture as much as possible while still holding his mug. He's never been one for military rigor, but this is necessary. Power of example and all that.

Nat's gaze is assessing as she sits at the rickety table. 

"Coffee?" Clint asks. 

"Thank you," she says. 

Clint pours that one himself, sets it on the table before her. He doesn't take the other seat. She makes a show of enjoying it, humming with approval. Her voice has an edge of command in it when she speaks next.

"Progress report."

"Balanced nutrition and hydration have been constant and successful. No impediments. We should be moving onto testing of physical abilities soon."

"Good," Nat says. "What else?"

"Re-acclimation is going well. He made this coffee."

If it wasn't obvious to Bucky this conversation is about him, he should realize it now. He doesn't show it, though. 

"Well done, James."

And _ that _ is what makes Bucky's breath stutter in his throat. It's a wisp of a sound; Clint would've missed it if they weren't standing so close. The demeanor is glaringly different, from the almost-familiarity Bucky displays with him to the rigid posture in the face of a new, scarier superior. 

"Although—" Clint begins and sets his mug down this time. He lowers his head. "I couldn't keep up with the predetermined schedule. The mission will suffer delays."

It's a huge misstep, to violate deadlines like that, especially when their mission, as Bucky knows it, is to save the world. He's alarmed, painfully evident on his face.

"And what do you intend to fix this issue?" Nat asks. 

"Nothing," Clint says. "Your timeline is not viable and I think you should readjust."

Next to him, Bucky's breaths are shorter. He's struggling and Clint aches all over because of it, but he needs to witness this. There's a little hysterical voice telling him that the charade won't hold, that Bucky will see right through it. Clint sure hopes he doesn't. 

Nat hums again, drinks more coffee. "Explain."

"Rushing would only be damaging to James," he says. "A handler's job is to care, not hurt their charge. This is my main objective and I stand by it."

She rises to her feet and Bucky makes an aborted movement, as if he was about to put himself between Nat and Clint. One of her eyebrows twitches, but it's a fleeting gesture. 

"That is a good argument. Well done, Clint," she says in the same mild tone as before. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees a full body shudder before Bucky relaxes into the at-ease stance once again. Point, meet home. He smiles at Nat, she smiles back. She steps closer, pets at the sides of Clint's neck, his shoulders, even scratches a bit at the back of his head. He kinda feels like a dog, like Lucky—he misses Lucky, but the mutt is not born yet, so that, too, will have to wait—under Nat's ministrations. It's worth it, though, because when she moves to do the same to Bucky, he accepts it without reticence, even closes his eyes. 

~

Clint walks Nat to her bike. It's colder today, and the snow has a certain amount of ice-like crunch to it under their boots. 

"I think that worked—"

Nat cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "How did you become not afraid of me?" 

"What?"

"Nobody is as relaxed around me as you are."

"I've known you—"

She shakes her head. "Not what I meant. When we spar, you're not afraid to hit. Before all this time travel, you behaved differently. I know what happened to you while you were with the circus, and that kind of trauma is not easily erased. If I didn't train it out of you, you might be cheeky with me, but you'd still be deferential when it matters most. You'd pull your punches."

Clint stares at his palms, thumbs trailing over his fingers. He gets it, suddenly. 

"There you go," Nat says quietly. 

His eyes snap up at her. 

She climbs on the bike, slides her helmet on, and tells him, "You have my permission to use it," before riding off. 

Must've been difficult for her to allow that, he reckons. 

~

The day passes without Clint pushing further, to let Bucky adjust to the new information he's received. Nat calls that night with Stark's schedule and there's an opening in about six days. It's already January 5th, and even though he doesn't want to rush, they do need to pick up the pace. He has to get Bucky out of the cabin at least. 

The next morning, while Bucky's brushing his teeth, Clint disconnects the chain from the wall anchor. He waits by the bathroom door for Bucky to emerge and ushers him toward the front room in such a way that he doesn't see the end of the chain. 

He only lets go of Bucky's arm when they've passed the front door and have taken a step onto the porch.

It's overcast, cold, their breaths coming in puffs. There's only so much enhancement can do when they're outside in t-shirts, but Clint's chosen this specifically. He wants Bucky to connect freezing temperatures to something other than being put into cryo sleep. 

Bucky turns his head to look behind him. The chain stretches in a line through the cabin all the way into the middle of the empty bedroom. Clint can tell the exact moment he sees the disconnect because that's when he stills.

"Eyes up front," Clint tells him quietly.

Bucky straightens, blinking repeatedly. The snow seems grey today.

"Thank you," Clint says. "I know you're cold, this won't take long. I realized I accidentally withheld relevant information from you and for that I'm sorry."

Bucky doesn't move, but looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I didn't show you what happens when you disobey."

There it is, that uptick in Bucky's breathing that never fails to feel like a punch to Clint's gut. He places his hand back on Bucky's arm, who doesn't exactly flinch, but it's a close call. Clint keeps his voice calm, low and as soothing as it can go while still maintaining the firmness of commands. It wouldn't help Bucky to be vague.

"Kneel."

Bucky lowers and Clint crouches with him.

"Keep the balls of your feet on the ground, sit back on your heels. Knees wider."

The chain drags over the boards of the porch, resonating with the hollowness underneath, as Bucky follows the instructions. Clint uses his hands next, as well as his words, to explain that straight back position, the line his neck should take, how to hold his hands behind his back. 

When done, he lets go and that final rustle of skin over cotton feels like a pop. Bucky's chest heaves and he trembles, though he doesn't move. He waits.

_ For the pain _, Clint's mind supplies.

He remembers the first time Nat put him on his knees; he thought she was going to cane the soles of his feet. It wouldn't have broken him like the gentleness of this punishment did.

Clint wouldn't have it any other way. Better remade in the hands of the Black Widow than victim to pain, struggling against it, wondering when it would finally end him, but never quite reaching that point. Never quite releasing him. Because Clint can take it, can take a lot of pain. 

Now Bucky's waiting for it and Clint is going to free him from it. 

It feels—

Did Nat feel this kind of possessiveness toward him as well? 

He shakes the thought off as he stands back up. He places a hand on the back of Bucky's head, not pressing, just there, a touch. 

"This is your punishment," he repeats Nat's words from back then. "Each transgression equals an amount of time spent like this, depending on gravity. You will not be allowed to move once the timer starts. You can blink and look where you want, but your head stays in this position. You're allowed to speak unless instructed otherwise." Clint's exhale is long, almost like a sigh. "The temptation to move when talking is high, so I would recommend doing that sparsely at first." 

Bucky's breathing is only marginally better, so he must need more time to process this. Clint was expecting as much. His own first time-out was eight gruesome hours because back then Clint only understood pain—he gets why Nat did it like that, it was the right choice—but Bucky's been really perceptive to gentleness. 

He must be very tired of hurting.

"You tried to hit me when you first woke up here," Clint says. "For that you get fifteen minutes. Starting now."

He rests his hip on the railing, arms crossed, one shoulder against the pillar holding the awning. 

Watches; counting seconds.

At 378 Bucky's chest is finally still, his breathing evenly calm. Some of the tension in his body seems to have drained away, too. All he's doing now is hold the stance. 

His eyelids close, about fifty seconds later. It's a slow motion that presses his eyelashes together, squeezing the wetness between them until it rolls in a drop on his cheek. 

Relief.

Clint feels it in his bones. He locks himself there, too, remains unmoving for the remainder of Bucky's time. He catches himself matching his inhales to Bucky's, has half a mind to stop, but in the end he chooses not to. 

They're in this together now.

~

They have breakfast on the floor of the bedroom, and Bucky keeps eyeing the loose end of the chain. He hasn't asked to be tied down again but he doesn't seem comfortable with it either. Clint would like to give him the assurance—the safety of this space—for longer, but he can't afford to, not when they're on a deadline. 

After dropping the plates in the sink, he hands Bucky his boots and a thick hoodie. 

"With me," Clint says and walks out, leaving the front door behind. 

He uses the railing and one of the pillars to heft himself up on the roof, stopping in the middle where the two sloping sides meet on a narrow platform. Bucky follows more slowly, struggling over the edge. 

The chain he used is heavy, links solid enough to keep a ship anchored in port; as thick as his wrist. Now all that metal is draped in loops over Bucky's flesh arm. Clint was wondering how he'd negotiate that.

At least his strength seems fine. 

"I have a mission in a few days," Clint says when Bucky stands next to him. "A hit. You'll accompany me as backup. Before we put you in the field, though, we need to test your abilities."

Bucky acknowledges and Clint takes his right hand to place a small key in his palm. 

"Unlock the collar." 

"What?"

"You can take it off."

Bucky looks at him like he doesn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. 

"Sir—" he finally says, but Clint cuts him off.

"James," he warns. "Take the collar off."

When Bucky swallows, it's hard enough that it pushes against the metal around his neck, but he doesn't linger. He carefully coils the chain on the narrow platform, making sure it won't slip down, before he starts twisting the collar around. His fingers aren't exactly shaking, but there's an uncertainty to the motions beyond what feeling around blindly deserves. It's hard to watch. 

There's bruising around Bucky's neck and he tilts his head this way and that while Clint checks it out. 

"Does it hurt?"

"No, sir"

They're back to the _ sir _ for the day it seems. Not that Bucky ever called Clint by his name, but when he gets comfortable he stops adding it to his answers. Clint stifles a sigh. He turns to open the two cases resting at their feet.

"First test, accuracy. I usually use a bow. You won't have to, but I want you to try a shot with it anyway, it will help me assess the mobility of your left arm."

"Yes, sir," Bucky says. 

He follows instructions closely, growing more and more focused by the minute. His arrows don't hit the paper targets Clint had mounted on the tree line in front of the cabin, but they're close enough. Bucky performs much better with a rifle and he seems more content to be behind the scope, too. 

When they climb down with all the gear, Bucky goes back for the chain as well. 

Hand to hand combat is next. Bucky's good. He's _ really _good. They work up a sweat faster than Clint expected. 

~

In all, Bucky's in good shape. There doesn't seem to be any lingering effect from the cryo sleep, and the bruising on his neck fades by dinnertime. The metal arm, though, shows some stuttering movements, depending on the angle to the shoulder plating. 

It's why Clint spends most of the night poring over the maintenance and diagnosis manuals. They're spread out all over the bed and Clint has half a mind to take a nap, around 3 AM, when he hears it.

That familiar drag of metal onto floorboards.

Clint climbs off the bed carefully, noiseless, and peeks into the bedroom, hidden behind the wall. Bucky's on his blanket nest, cross-legged, holding one end. He looks like he's considering something, and Clint chants _ let go, let go _, inside his head. After long minutes, though, Bucky drags it closer as he lies down on his side. 

Curled up like that, holding onto the thing that traps him here, cracks Clint's resolve. It seems that Bucky needs some sort of proof that he gets to stay with Clint. A physical manifestation of assurance. Clint knows it's easy to convince yourself that something good might be a figment of imagination when the only thing you have to hold on to is what's inside your mind. He's been there.

And he knows he shouldn't, but he can't really make himself not do it. He knows it will most likely attach Bucky to him even more, instead of pushing him to autonomy. 

That kind of pain, though, is unsoothable. Living with the prospect that all these freedoms Bucky hasn't known for decades could blink away without warning is not going to help either. 

In the morning he grabs the phone, walks outside, and before he dials Nat, he says, "Please forgive me."

~

Nat gives him a very hard to misinterpret stink eye when she arrives, around noon on the day they're set to leave the cabin. The arm wasn't hard to fix, it only required some gears greased and a couple of screws tightened. Clint's pretty pleased of his Russian comprehension skills because speaking it is one thing, but reading technical jargon—in Cyrillic no less—is a whole different fish dish. 

"This is a mistake," she says as she hands him the small package.

"He needs it," Clint argues. Maybe Clint needs it, too. 

He sits heavily on the bottom step of the porch stairs. He rubs at the back of his head, twirling the makeshift newspaper wrapping between his fingers, and looks up to where Nat is standing before him. 

"I was temporarily compromised once," he says. "Kinda like instant brainwashing. Almost took down an entire—" He gestures vaguely, because helicarriers aren't a thing, not yet. "—SHIELD base all by myself. Afterward it was hard, at times, to not wake in the middle of the night and wonder if it was all a dream. If I wasn't still hurting everyone I knew."

Nat takes a step closer. "What did I do?" she asks, barely above a whisper. 

"You sparred with me, right over there." He points to a flat area to the side. "Viciously. When I was under enemy influence, I couldn't feel pain, and you gave it to me whenever I needed it. I had bruised ribs for what felt like forever, and it worked." 

Clint spares a glance at the cabin, and when he turns back around, Nat's fingers sink in his hair. She scratches lightly, gently, and Clint leans into it. 

"He doesn't need more pain," he says. "He needs this."

"Okay," Nat relents, but it's laden with warning of future consequences. 

Clint takes a deep breath. 

~

The chain glints in the low light of the cabin as Clint fastens it. He pulls Bucky's hair back, checks the fit. The length is perfect; it now sits snug at the base of Bucky's neck, not enough to constrict breathing or motion during combat, but enough that Bucky feels it. Its links are barely half the width of his pinky but it's made of steel, so it's not exactly light. 

Bucky keeps touching it while they gear up, furtive slides of fingers, as if to make sure it's there. 

And then he fucking _ smiles _, like this isn't a symbol of his dependency on Clint. 

It's pretty much why Clint strides over to him. He holds them temple to temple, a hand gripping onto the side of Bucky's neck, as he whispers, "Whatever happens, whether you get taken away from me, or your old handlers return, or speak the words, it doesn't matter. I'll come for you. I'll always come for you."

He pulls away, then, pushes everything aside, and turns his focus on the mission. He measures his inhales, prolongs his exhales, while sliding into the mindset that allows him to pull the trigger. 

He needs to, if he's going to murder Tony's parents tonight.

~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... um. There's probably some trigger warnings that should go with this chapter, but unsure how to phrase them. There is violence. Lots of feels. Tread carefully. 
> 
> Beta by Tanouska the ever-patient :)
> 
> Hi, how is everyone? Hope you're well and enjoying the holidays, whichever those may be for you. I know this update comes late, but work's been busy. Crossing fingers for more writing during vacation. *leaves out basket of kittens*

The New York air is crisp and sharp as the January evening settles over the city. A thin layer of iced-over snow clings to everything, glinting off the roads, the cars, the faces of buildings. As soon as they enter the location Nat has secured for them, Clint spends a couple of minutes simply taking in the view. It's the same and it's different all at once. 

Across the wide boulevard, in the penthouse of the Grand Admiral, the Starks are hosting a business dinner. Clint spares a half-bitter smirk at the memory of looking over New York from the height of Avengers Tower. He takes the sting of loss that brings and turns it into focus for his current mission. 

Nat had managed to infiltrate Stark's social staff. As part of the team organizing events for him, she was able to book this particular venue for tonight. After losing the serum, it seems that Stark needs to reassure three politicians and two generals that their supersoldier program is still on track. For Clint and Bucky, Nat's found a spot in the decrepit building facing the hotel. It's marked for demolition, standing empty and dark. 

The plan is simple. Clint will wait until the guests leave around midnight, then he'll make his move on Stark. If possible, he'll take the shot while Maria is in another room. Pack up, back downstairs where their bikes wait, and they'll be back at the cabin before dawn. 

Easy. 

Except for the hollow pain eating away at Clint's chest. He resolutely ignores it as he assembles the rifle. 

From the pile of chairs in the corner, Bucky fishes one that still has all its legs and Clint takes it to settle in for the wait, his butt on uncomfortable plastic, rifle resting between his shoulder and the ledge of the window. Cold air rushes in from time to time, raising Clint's skin in goosebumps. He forces himself to still, muscles relaxed enough to not cramp, but activated in such a way that he can spring into action at a moment's notice. 

It's still early, the event across the street buoyant in that cloying way only surface pleasantries can convey. They don't have audio, but Clint doesn't need it, even though Nat is not in the room with the Starks and the politicians and their wives, either. She's in the parked van two blocks over for extraction should they need it. They exchange short calls every half hour with updates, but things haven't deviated from schedule, and it's been quiet. 

Bucky's been silent, too. He stands next to Clint, the rifle between them, observing the activity in the penthouse. Clint's kept an eye on him, but he's been following orders without reaction, only efficiency. So Clint throws him his pocket scope.

"Target's the man at the far left," he says. "Discretion is required. We're waiting for the room to clear."

Not even half a minute later, Bucky shifts, his boot scuffing against the dusty floor. He lowers the scope, but Clint doesn't move, choosing to watch from the corner of his eye. 

"Sir," Bucky says. "That's—that was my target, too."

"He was," Clint admits, keeps his voice mild and flat. 

"He's your husband's father."

"He is."

"The woman next to him is his mother."

Clint's gaze shifts to Maria. He hums instead of answering. 

Bucky's metal hand grips the top of the rifle, obstructing Clint's view and he finally looks up, eyebrows raised. Bucky's chest heaves, once, before his face takes that determined set reminiscent of Steve. 

"Abort the mission," Bucky says. He swallows, hard. "I'll explain it to her." 

"Explain it to who?" Clint has an inkling about who Bucky's referring to, but he'd like to hear it. 

"Your handler. She—" His voice is shaking. "She listens, doesn't she? I'll explain. I'll take all your punishments, too."

Something cold washes over Clint. "This is _ my _mission," he says. "I decide. Not Natasha, and not you."

"Sir, please. You don't have to do this."

"How the hell would you know what I have and don't have to do? You didn't live my life." 

"I can see you don't—"

"Enough," Clint snaps. There's a pressure forming behind his eyes, probably beckoning a headache, and he forces his jaw to unclench. "Remove your hand."

Bucky grips tighter instead, shifting the muzzle's line of sight.

"James," he warns. "Let go of the fucking rifle."

"No." 

After everything, this is what it comes to. He's going to have to _ fight _ for it. His entire body feels like a big, gaping wound, scraped raw on asphalt and left to die in the sun. An ugly sound forms in his throat, like a fistful of broken glass trying to come out. Maybe it's just bile, but it's wrapped tight in a desperation he hasn't felt since he was a kid standing over Mom's grave. 

"You said you wanted to spare him the suffering."

Clint snarls, stands up.

"How is killing his father going to do that?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you don't want to do this," Bucky says. "He's family, too, isn't he? Whatever he's guilty of, there's gotta be another way."

"He _ deserves _ it. He's hurting Tony."

Bucky falters and Clint's blood boils less, just for a moment, but then Bucky has to open his mouth again. 

"You said you saved them from me for our family."

"Stop."

"So I'm guessing he didn't forgive me."

"Shut up."

"Will he forgive you?"

"_ Shut up! _" Clint yells, lungs burning, and backhands Bucky across the face.

The rifle falls with a dull thud as Bucky crumples to the floor. Clint moves over him, fist drawn back, ready to—

Bucky pushes himself up on his metal palm, and reaches out, the shuffle muted. His head is bent down, hair falling over his face. He's trembling, but his flesh fingers hook delicately into the fabric of Clint's pants, a brush more than anything, silently begging. 

Clint's eyes blur over and he blinks it away, as quickly as possible. 

There are no words on his tongue or in his head, just an ever expanding ache spreading from within his chest and up into his throat, suffocating him from within. 

He doesn't know how long they stay there, as they are, harsh breaths permeating the space. Must be a while. The first to move is Bucky, who withdraws his hand and shifts toward a kneel.

"Don't," Clint says. Something snaps in his chest. 

Bucky draws his legs under him, but otherwise remains where he is, curled up toward the floor, face still obscured by the long hair. When he speaks again, his voice is frail and shaking. 

"Sir, I'll do anything you want. I'll—I'll exchange my memories for his life."

Clint collapses back in the chair, hard enough that it creaks, sharp and wild. If there was a constant in Tony's life, it was the looming memory of his father. Tony was shaped by his dismissal, by his death. He wouldn't be _ Tony _ otherwise. 

"It won't be the same," Clint rasps. His voice sounds unlike his own, wet and torn. "He needs this to become a hero."

"Death is not what makes people heroes," Bucky says and it's so quiet Clint almost misses it. "It's the kindness inside them. It's when they fight for the little guy."

Clint stills. Steve's face forms somewhere in the back of his mind and Clint can almost hear him, see him lift his chin in stubbornness. He wonders, for a brief, almost-hysterical moment, if Steve had learned it from Bucky or the other way around. The back of his hand burns, suddenly. 

He'd hit him. 

Clint has to swallow so he won't throw up all over the floor. It squelches in the silence and Bucky still won't look up. 

Hell. 

It's a couple of minutes before he can speak again, and when he does it feels like the words are cutting the inside of his throat. 

"He won't be the same Tony we know."

Bucky doesn't react, not immediately, and when he does it's to wrap his flesh arm around his torso. Nothing else, face still hidden. He's shaking, Clint realizes.

"Sir," Bucky says, a trembling around the word that bites at Clint, "in your future, did you extract me? Did you hold me when I cried? Did you make me feel safe?"

Clint blinks. "No, I—"

"Who then?"

Clint has to clear his throat. "Nobody, you were—"

"So then _ you _ already changed me. But I guess I don't matter as much to our family, if you can stand to do that to me."

By the end, Bucky's voice has become flat enough to turn into a blade that pierces right into the center of his chest, unrelenting. 

"And what," Clint counters, pushing back against the truth of that statement, "you wanted to be _ tortured _for a couple more decades?"

Bucky's shoulders move with the depth of his breaths and he curls further into himself instead of answering out loud. From the middle of Clint's being, guilt emanates outward. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

"You're right," Clint relents, "but this is better for you in the long run."

"And for Tony it will be better to be left fatherless."

There's an echo there, in that specific idea, that steals half of Clint's air from his lungs. He's sure Bucky doesn't remember his father never returning from the war, but maybe losing a parent stays with people, no matter what happens. Clint knows how that scar feels well enough. 

"You don't understand," Clint almost pleads now. "I'm going to lose him."

He knew, on some level, that Tony won't be his in this life like he used to. He started all of this with a different goal in mind, to bring Pepper back to Tony. But now, after he's said it out loud, realization dawns on him. It drops like a sack of bricks and it hurts, amplifying the pain that's been gripping him since the cliff on Vormir. 

His fingers are numb where he presses them over his mouth. 

Bucky's image blurs. 

The sob that tears out of his chest makes way for another, and another, and another. 

For the first time since he died, Clint's grief overflows. 

Against all expectations, hands pull at him, gentle and coaxing until his knees hit the floor; until his face is pressed half on harsh cloth and half against warm skin. It smells of disinfectant and soap and a little bit of sweat, the prickling of unshaved beard on his forehead, and Clint cries. 

He weeps until there's no more left in him to flow outward, and he stays there, exhausted, for a long while. So long that Bucky answers the sat phone in his stead when Nat calls to check in. 

"Status unchanged," he tells her. Lies to her for Clint. 

That sobers him up like a bucket of ice water and Clint pushes off. Bucky's cheek doesn't bear any signs of what Clint did and that's worse, somehow. He'll have to find a way to make it up to him, he thinks as he struggles to his feet.

Clint stumbles to the window, rubbing at his face. Stark is still there, laughing like he hasn't left Tony to fend for himself, alone in a too big house. School should start soon, though, shouldn't it? Tony'll be safe there, with Rhodes. And yet, the appearance of joy on the Starks' faces gnaws at Clint when he knows how Howard handled his parenting. 

"Wish I could kill him."

Behind him, the rustle tells him Bucky's standing, too. His boots sound heavy as he steps up to Clint. "Why?"

"He's hurting Tony," he rasps. 

"Then let Tony decide if he wants his father to die."

That, Clint guesses, would be the way to go, but he can't possibly bring Tony into this. Not when he's still a teenager who's primary worry should be class and chasing flings and getting a hangover for the first time. He nods, though, because Bucky's right. Again. 

Clint wishes he could look him in the eye. 

He calls Nat instead. 

"Unchanged my ass," Nat says when she picks up. "What happened?"

"We had a disagreement, but we're working it out. I'm calling it off."

"Good," she replies. "Meet you at the cabin to talk strategy?"

Clint scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, but… can you give us tonight? Still working on—ugh, working it out."

Nat hums. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Nothing urgent. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Hey, Nat? Do you know where Tony is?"

"Back to school, left yesterday."

"Can you—can you check on him?" 

"Yes. I can drop by MIT before driving up to you."

"Thanks."

They hang up after quick goodbyes, and Clint finally turns to look at Bucky. 

That blue gaze is so alive, Clint feels it all the way into his bones. There's hurt in there, mixing with relief wrapped in determination, his jaw set but not crunching, movements short and efficient as he packs up the gear. 

He reminds Clint of the future Barnes so viscerally, his knees buckle, but thankfully he keeps himself upright. Even with their sparse interactions, if there's one thing he's always known about Bucky Barnes, it's that he never gives up. Takes whatever bad hand life deals him and pushes forward. Clint follows after the Bucky in front of him, one step after the other.

~

It's still dark when they reach the cabin, but the sky is clear and the moon sits high, casting a low light over their parked bikes. Clint unmounts his, and waits for Bucky to do the same. They're at the side of the house, a few steps from the piece of land where Clint used to get his ass kicked during Nat's training sessions, so he walks backward, gesturing Bucky closer. He follows, warily. 

"Hit me," Clint says when they're where he deems them far enough away. 

Bucky's fist clenches at his side, but, apart from his wide eyes and parted lips, he doesn't move. 

"Sir—"

"It's an order," Clint barks. "Punch me. Now."

He's pretty sure Bucky reacts out of pure instinct, but the crunch and the following sharpness of pain is satisfying enough. Clint grins and spits away the blood flowing out of his bitten cheek. 

"That all you got? A tap? Are you a soldier or what?"

The next hit sends Clint to his ass. Bucky looks at him, jaw tight, unnerved by his own actions. Clint pounces, unwilling to let him process this. He needs it. 

They both do. 

There's no finesse to their brawl. No training, just flying punches, more flailing than purposely hurting. Bucky doesn't even use his metal arm, except for one instance where he grabs Clint by the neck and smacks him onto the ground. Clint coughs, eyes leaking, and jumps right back into it. 

~

The moon has lowered over the mountain tops by the time they stop. They're lying side by side, their backs on the disturbed layer of frosted snow. A stone digs into the side of Clint's neck, his lip is split, and his shoulder hurts more than enough. Panting, he turns his head to see Bucky catching his breath. 

"I'm sorry," he rasps. "I hit you and that was—that's not good."

"I disobeyed," Bucky says, eyes set onto the sky. 

"No," Clint insists. "It was wrong." 

He's supposed to provide a guiding hand to Bucky through this entire ordeal, but something between them changed tonight and Clint's not sure how to handle it. Bucky's expressed himself, bargained, made a decision, especially against clear orders, and all of that despite the drugs running through his system. 

"You're my family, too," Clint says in a whisper. His eyes burn again, but he manages to stave it off; it's not the time to bawl. "Don't think for a _ moment _that I don't care about you. I hope someday, when you're back to yourself, you'll forgive me. And that you won't be scared of me."

That last bit… it wasn't supposed to come out, but Clint has this irredeemable talent of putting his foot in his mouth when it matters the most. He sighs out harshly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he blinks then open, Bucky is looking at him, eyebrows raised. 

"I'm not afraid of you," he says and Clint feels dizzy. 

It takes a while before he can put his running thoughts into words. 

"Can you stop with the _ sir _, then?" he finally asks.

Bucky's eyebrows scrunch as he turns his face back to the sky. "I can't," he says, more of a sigh than anything. 

A chill runs up Clint's spine, apprehension tightening around his throat. "Why?"

Next to him, Bucky swallows once, twice, before he lifts flesh fingers to his forehead. He runs them from temple to temple, lingering there. "It hurts here. Bad. When I try to think of you by name."

Clint shivers, wetness from the ground seeping into his clothes. Or maybe it's coming from within. He can't tell anymore. 

"The machine."

For a second, Clint thinks it's Bucky who's said but, but it came from his lips. Bucky nods, staring unseeingly into the fading darkness overhead. When he finally speaks, it's stilted. 

"You're my—handler—I can't—"

"Mission call sign. You're allowed to use that, aren't you?"

Bucky blinks, eyes wide once again, and sets his too bright gaze onto Clint. It scrapes inside Clint's chest. Claws its way out, a cautious and fragile hope.

"Hawkeye. I'm Hawkeye. Say it."

"Hawkeye," Bucky repeats. 

"That's for short term missions, when we need to interact with the outside world. Do you understand?"

Bucky nods jerkily. "Yes, sir."

And then something occurs to him. "As for what we're doing now, it's a long term mission. We will recruit an ally in a few years and, with her help, we'll go to recruit another after that. Are you with me, soldier?"

"Yes, sir?" This time it sounds like the question that it is. 

Clint offers a smile, but he can't manage more than a twitch. He's really broken, he realizes, as he says, "During this long term mission my call sign is Clint Barton. Say it."

"Clint Barton," Bucky murmurs, no obvious sign of discomfort. 

"From now on, only use _ sir _ when we're alone. And only if you really need to. Understand?" 

"Yes, sir."

It was maybe too much to hope for an immediate change. Clint is determined to coax it out of Bucky. Small, steady steps, he thinks as he rolls to his side, leaning over Bucky. He can't really explain it, not even to himself, why he does it, but he cups the side of Bucky's face and places a kiss on his forehead. 

"No more pain, okay? Tell me immediately what hurts, when it hurts."

Bucky swallows audibly, before rapsing a muted "Okay."

"Good. Come on," Clint says as he pushes to his feet, "let's get clean."

The cabin is dark, the silence heavy inside. The ghost memory of Morgan rushes by Clint's feet, chatter and noise echoing against the walls. Up ahead, Tony leans on the door jamb, arms crossed and glasses askew. Clint had Tony only because Tony lost _ everything _ . Almost everything. Even after the snap, Clint still had Nat. When Clint got his hands on Tony, he'd been so damaged—on the brink of losing Morgan, too, by detaching himself from reality. Clint had been there, two lives in his hands, and he'd done whatever he could to keep them afloat. Somewhere, in another timeline, _ that _ Tony is still fighting because Clint gave him his heart. 

Over there, _ his Tony _ is saving the world. Mourning Clint. 

Over here, the _ only _ one who needs to suffer is himself. Bucky's right. He _ can _ find other ways to bring their family together. He _ will _.

Until then, he'll take care of Bucky. Have him ready for Steve's return. It's the least he can do. 

So when Bucky makes to remove his gear, Clint stops him. "Let me," he pleas and Bucky thankfully complies.

He peels the layers off both of them, scrubs Bucky under the lukewarm water of the shower—himself as perfunctorily as possible—then bundles Bucky on the bed in the front room. 

No more separation, Clint reckons as he lays down next to Bucky. No more handler and soldier. He needs to instill the idea of equality between them. The plan had been to do it after Bucky's had his memories. _ After _Bucky fulfilled his purpose and bonded with Nebula. Now it makes him sick to the stomach. 

"Do you think I could shave?" Bucky asks, derailing Clint's thoughts. He looks ashen in the cold light of morning. 

"Sure. Want your hair cut, too?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No, just shave."

Clint nods in acquiescence, mind skittering back over all the mistakes he's made with Bucky, when Bucky speaks again. The chain around his neck glints with the motion.

"Future me, what would he say of all this?"

It takes a very long while for Clint to force an answer out of his dry throat. Long enough for Bucky's body to relax against the mattress. 

"He's the kind of guy who does what needs to be done. He understands sacrifice. I think he'd approve of my plan, but resent me at the same time. He's given up too much already."

Bucky turns to look at him and Clint closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see.

"I'm not him," Bucky says. "That man is gone."

It's not loud, but it feels like it is. It feels like an accusation. _ Murderer _. Steve's disappointed face floats somewhere at the forefront of Clint's doubling grief and he chokes, wetness pooling behind his eyelids. 

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." 

Clint gasps, lungs filling painfully, eyes flying open. Bucky's metal palm presses onto the side of Clint's face, thumb pushing into his cheek. 

"I'm not sorry," Bucky repeats. "I'm safe with you."

"Because I _ made _ you think that."

Bucky's eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Do you _ intend _ to hurt me?"

"No, I—"

"You said you'd never lie. Did you lie?"

Clint shakes his head as much as he can while being held down. "I wanted to _ use _you."

A sad little huff leaves Bucky's lips. His hand withdraws, and he curls in on himself under the blanket, face tucked down enough that Clint can't see it anymore. "Sir, I didn't really realize I was a human being until you brought me here."

Clint blinks; with it, a fresh wave spills over. 

"Whatever you're doing to me, it's working. So continue. Use me."

"I _ hit _ you."

"I made you mad."

"_ No. _ That's not—" Clint takes a deep breath. "Don't forgive me. Once you have your memories you'll change your mind about everything. As you are now, you can't make an informed decision."

"I'm the only me I know," Bucky says and it's so small and quiet, it hurts worse than anything. 

"Fuck," Clint mutters. "Look at me." When Bucky doesn't move, he dares pull at his chin. Wet eyes meet his. Clint shudders. "I'll make a deal with you. We'll continue my way, but the moment—the _ moment _ you don't want it anymore, you tell me. Deal?"

Bucky nods, shakily. "Deal."

Clint doesn't really trust him to say something, but he vows to himself to look out for changes. And when Bucky will be able to stand on his own, when he'll be fully aware of himself, when he'll no longer need that chain, that's when Clint will step back. He'll retreat, keep away. It might mean no Steve in his life, either. No family, but it's a price he's willing to pay, after what he's done. After what he'll keep doing. 

He closes his eyes again, tired. 

So fucking tired. 

Maybe this new life had been the wrong choice, back on Vormir.

~

Clint doses off intermittently until around noon. Next to him, Bucky is still, but his breathing doesn't have the deep rhythm that comes with sleep. As soon as he hears the van climbing up the road, Clint rolls off the bed. 

Nat's shoulders slump when she sees him. "That bad, huh?"

There's a hard lump in Clint's throat and he swallows against it, but it doesn't relent. He nods instead, panic gripping at his sides. Can't stand to disappoint her, too. 

She climbs up the stairs slowly, hums while she stops in front of him. And then, then—

Clint's heart pounds as she takes his hand, leads him to the bench on the porch. Nat sits at the end, then points at the space between her legs, and Clint falls to the ground. Grateful, is what he is. 

Time stretches differently when he's kneeling for her. Moreso, with her fingers carding through his hair. Noise from the side, Nat's voice vibrating above him. "It's all right, James. He's not being punished. Sit next to me." Her knee rests against another. More fingers, on the back of his neck, his shoulder. 

Nat's chest lifts and falls, Clint's own catching onto the moment. 

She's speaking, in low tones and gentle words. Clint doesn't care what she's saying, just lets himself be cushioned by it, removed from the world. 

At some point his breathing evens out, and when he tips forward he's caught. Allowed to rest his chilled face on a hot thigh. Something shuffles, jostling Clint, but he goes with it, lulled into stillness once more. Warmth settles on his bare skin. A thumb presses over his cheek, grounding. 

Clint succumbs to darkness. 

~

"That's the dosage, yes."

"Okay, sit still. There you go. Good?"

"Yes, thank you, sir." A pause. "Natasha."

"_ Very _ good."

Softness surrounds him. Metal on his neck, scratchy wool on his back. Sheets beneath him. Cotton under his cheek, shifting with minute muscle movement. The mattress dips when someone sits. Probably Nat. With difficulty, Clint pries his eyelids open. 

Nat smiles at him. 

"You idiot," she says, so gently it stings. "You can't have James beat you up and not tell him what you need after."

He deserves it, Clint tries to explain, but all he manages is a sound that cracks as soon as it leaves his lips. 

"None of that. James told me what happened last night." Nat frowns now, and Clint barely refrains from shrinking back. "A husband and a daughter. You can't carry that weight on your own, kid."

"Technically, I'm older than you." Because, of course that's the first thing he says. Of course. 

Nat rolls her eyes, exasperated—so _ familiar _—and suddenly Clint's forgiven for keeping important things from her. 

"Don't be an ass, Barton."

"No, sir." He even sticks his tongue out. 

His pillow shudders, and Clint looks up to see Bucky quasi-laughing against his flesh fist. Every little bit of guilt comes rushing in, but he wraps it up in a knot. Keeps it away from showing on his face. Once his mission is over, they'll be free of him. Until then, he'll do his best to make sure their future is bright. 

"So," Nat says, drawing his attention back to her. "James has a new task. To take care of you like you take care of him. You'll accept his help, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Clint replies, genuinely this time. 

Nat's gaze is assessing, long and lingering. Fond, for the short time they've known each other from her perspective. He reaches out for her hand, kisses her knuckles. 

Promises silently to make it right. 

~

Later, after they've eaten, they sit around the kitchen table with fresh coffee at their elbows. It's dark out, surreal and overly quiet, in that wintery way. 

"After Tony graduated," Clint explains, "he took over Stark Industries. Obadiah Stane was his mentor for a long time. They built mostly weapons. In 2008 Stane betrayed Tony, had him kidnapped and tortured. That's when Tony became Iron Man. A man in a metal suit, able to fly and kick ass." He grins a little at the memory. "He changed the focus of SI to green energy, removed the company out of the weapons business altogether. He did a lot of good, even though he never thought he'd atone for all the destruction he caused when he didn't care. Well." Clint rubs at his face. "That's a different can of worms, mostly because of Howard Stark's parenting skills, but let's not get into it right now."

Nat nods slowly, an incentive to continue. 

"What we need is to set Tony on his path to independence. Howard needs to be out of the game, and if I can't take him out with a bullet, then we need to convince him to retire. He'll listen to Carter." 

"You'd have to be honest with her," Nat says. 

Clint's eyes flicker briefly to James, and judging by the way Nat's narrow in response, she hasn't missed it. He takes a deep breath.

"She knows James," he admits. "From before."

~


End file.
